


Table and Chair, Choice and Consequence

by TalesOfBelle



Series: ID: Widowmaker [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 11:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20425406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalesOfBelle/pseuds/TalesOfBelle
Summary: "You'll have a choice to make, of course,Once it is done,We won't be able to stop you going back to them,But you should know what will happen,And you should know there is an alternative."





	Table and Chair, Choice and Consequence

_Voices. _

_“God-damnit, Amélie. What did you do!?” _

_Ringing. _

_“You'll have to think, of course, for yourself.” _

_A single tone. _

_"Report, Widowmaker.” _

_The tinnitus ring of a gunshot. _

There's disorder, her head hurts, the ringing doesn't stop. Not until Reyes slams his fist on the table and asks again, “What. Did. You. Do?”

Amélie jolts. She blinks rapidly, the harsh artificial spotlight of the interrogation room hurts her eyes. Gabriel Reyes leans over the desk towards her, she's close enough to smell the nicotine on his breath. And something else – he'd been drinking.

“That's enough, Gabriel,” A motherly voice from the corner of the room that follows the sound of a door opening and closing. Captain Amari. Amélie had never been on a first-name basis with her, not like Reyes, but she's speaking softly, with familiarity, with kindness, sincerity, is this what Gérard did? Amélie wonders if he would be the Reyes or the Amari here.

Reyes had been standing so the chair opposite Amélie is free for only as long as it takes Captain Amari to claim it. Ana, her name is Ana. Gérard had mentioned her before, he'd called her a hard-ass. Reyes looks offended, he stalks the room, paces twice, and then Captain Amari suggests that if he can't keep himself still he should go and cool off. He does that, he does exactly that, the door refuses to slam and Amélie is sure it must sour his mood further.

Click.

The door closing softly.

“Amélie, we're just trying to figure out what happened.”

Amélie's gaze drifts from the door to her right to the woman in front of her. Ana looks sympathetic, like she's really trying. She's really trying to understand. Amélie looks vacant. Her gaze then drifts to the mirror on her left. She knows how this works, Reyes would be on the other side by now.

“Did someone take you? We can only assume...”

Amélie is listening, even if she doesn't look like it.

“Do you remember being found? Outside your dance studio?”

Amélie squints. That feels familiar.

“Do you remember going home?”

Soft music, something she had once performed to on stage.

She looks around the room and it's her home, her lounge, her sofa she reclines back on. It all feels uncomfortable and unfamiliar, but she is home and there is Gérard, a faceless man. He's holding a wine glass each, selected from her collection of favourites, one is offered to her and she takes it. He tells her to take all the time she needs. When she wants to talk, she can talk. He tells her it's okay. He tells her that she's home.

He tells her to shoot him.

To put a pillow over his sleeping head and shoot him. He's so earnest, she can imagine the wide-eyed expression behind the obscurity masking his face. There's always blooming light or a harsh shadow, no angle is the right angle.

They go to bed.

The bed is a cot in a cell and she's alone in it. The orange they have her wearing is garish, and the man who is with her has his knuckles gripping the bars – outside facing in. It's Reyes again, she can see his face.

“We can't protect you from this, Amélie.”

She's staring at him. Has she said anything yet? Does she surprise him when she opens her mouth and says,

“I killed my husband.”

Reyes' features darken. A plume of smoke exits his mouth, but she doesn't see a cigarette,

“I know, Amélie.”

“I shot him.”

“We know.”

“He told me to.”

Reyes presses his forehead against the bars as though he's holding back the impulse to simply force his way through them,

“Who, Amélie? Who?”

She doesn't know, “I don't know,” And she cries.

This is what she would have to live with. Before the cell, before the table and chair, before the tinnitus ring and the shot that preceded it, she is told that this is what she would have to live with.

“You'll have to think, of course, for yourself,” The omnic hums, like he is a mentor finally handing reigns to his student.

Cold wind. Sirens. Home – a piano, a man, the drawer where he keeps his gun. A chair through a window. A balcony. Extraction.

A table and chair.

The omnic leans over the surface, but he doesn't look angry. He knows how to play with the shadows from the spotlight to make changes to his expression,

“Report.”

Amélie blinks rapidly like she's been woken from a dream. She stares at the omnic, he's wearing the red lights, his finest suit. He stands up straight to stare down at her. She looks vacant.

“Report, Widowmaker,” There's a throb emanating from him, a low static tone that feels like pressure on her head. Amélie winces, her hands curl – knuckles pressed against the table.

“I killed my husband.”

The omnic takes a seat, still staring. He's expectant, he wants more.

“I shot him.”

He nods once.

“I sent the signal.”

“You did. You came back,” He sounds proud, the colour of his lights change – he looks much more pleasant in blue, “Why did you come back?” He offers her his hand, she might need the comfort.

She takes his hand and she feels safe, “I want to forget.”

Static. An engine's roar. Shattered glass. Tinnitus. Gunshot.


End file.
